and I thought, what the hell did I do to Donald Duck to get a drink like this? that’s my joke for today, that sentence. remember drinking that crap, out of those metal government cans? now I’m free to drink the real stuff. and to write, to read, to really appreciate reading. back when I was drinking Donald Duck, the only book I read was Herbie Goes Bananas. even that was a big deal. but I had a book report. my mom used to help me through the book reports. one was on leaves that I had collected and pressed into this big notebook. and I had drawn the names of the leaves on construction paper. for growing up, I wanted to be something generic like a fireman. not that firemen are generic, even, but just saying something like that at such an age, it wasn’t real. it was just to appease some adults. it was the entertaining thing, too. like, there goes our little fireman. when he grows older he will make us proud and protect his leaves. he’ll fireproof the world.
I read Fahrenheit 451 where they were burning houses up left and right. I lost my innocence – to an extent, as it was destined for any kid to come into knowing the world as it really is, the real temperature. it’s cold. so you gotta fight against the cold. you gotta fight against the distractions and not get down when it looks like everyone else on this damn train is about to slit their wrists.
but that’s some generic stuff.
today I sat in the park
and because of the birds
I tried to think of a
few extra pleasant things
I was half guarding against
anyone that was about
to approach me for money
pretended I was a writer
with pen tip against the page
wrote the forced word
nothing special came of
the forced word
I just worked in that damn sweatshop
tried to stay true to my thoughts
meaning I tried to stay
right by them
not entangled in conversation
laughing all the time
talking about other people
scheming for food or . . .
the schedule
rape of everything possible
“hate comes easy . . .
when pushed too far
hate comes easy for me too”
when Zac and I first met each other
we put in that Downcast tape
and used to scream in the car
I’d fake out the pedestrians
make them think I was going to hit them
I was a real show off bastard.
I’m lucky my house didn’t burn down
one time it was robbed though
and firemen showed up for that I think
funny how I can’t remember for sure
whether or not a big ass fire truck was
out in front of my house
I used to chalk up the driveway
with anarchy signs, hardly even knowing
what it meant, just that it was punk
and probably the right political and personal
stance for me
it took years to learn it deeper
I thank Emma Goldman for that.
my mom was mad at me for making that conversion
she always was such a mainstream sellout
when I would listen to Minor Threat and Ian would
scream: “do you fuckin’ get it?”
she would get so upset
the more she hated The Misfits and The Exploited
the more I loved them
what a time of transition
I could write on and on about it
and probably will
what are you going to be when you grow up? what do you see yourself as? people have all these kinds of questions for me. I don’t even feel like talking. my meditation at the end of the day comes down to the antithesis of their take and take some more if you can conversation. they’re always in disguise. I’ve always let myself down every time I wouldn’t tell it to them straight. they’ve got all these put downs for you, and you’re a small little kid in school just trying to make it by with one challenge after another. you don’t need all that. just get in their face and say, “you’re boring as shit.” and walk away. well, I have it down now.
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